


/same song and dance

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Gore, Guro, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Porn Without Sex, Power Dynamics, Prostitution, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-06 07:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Cricket is a shit-broke, coke addicted, homeless male prostitute. Dennis is a headfucked trust fund baby who knows nobody will wonder where Cricket's gone.





	1. finding the perfect one (a difficult task for any man)

_Oftentimes, good-quality gutter trash is hard to find. They're mostly old, pregnant, or with pets or children. Most of them have sailed off the brink of sanity, meaning they're no fun and, frankly, give a lot of trouble. Druggies are a good bet, so long as they are still sane, as drugs aren't hard to find, but they'll do anything._

_Women are, of course, preferable. However, there seem to be far fewer homeless women on the streets. Those that are, are generally elderly or with child, or are simply ugly. It's far easier to tell if a lady cleans up nicely, as opposed to a man. A man is usually trapped in piles of facial hair, and can't be seen for their full potential until that seal is broken. Of course, more seasoned folk involved in this hobby can usually tell if a man looks well, even with a full beard._

_Some men, I've found, are works of art._

The art piece in question was known as Rickety Cricket. Matthew Mara.

Tonight he was posted beneath a bridge. His back pressed against a wall. He'd managed to put together an outfit that screams 'male prostitute'. Criss-crossed fishnets, and pants cut off into the tiniest of uneven shorts. His shirt, too, was sawed in half above the navel. Still with his jacket, though. It was cold, so fucking cold. He felt like showing more skin would help, but now of course, he was freezing. Plus his malnourished little UNICEF body was probably killing more boners than it was causing.

He wasn't sure how it ended up this way. One minute you're a man of the cloth, the next you're slutting it up under a bridge for food, or even just coke. The illusion of warm skin would keep Cricket breathing just one more night at a time. Even though his knees were in pain, dear god, his knees. He'd always had knee issues. He sold his splints years ago.

As he was about to light up a foil crack-pipe and forget he existed, he saw a shadow. A man. Cricket choked back the withdrawals. This one, in an Armani suit, could surely give Cricket something. Money, please god, money.

"Hey." Cricket nodded towards the strange man. It was dark, but the man looked far younger than Cricket was accustomed to. "Wanna have a fun night?"

"Ah." The man mumbled. "Step closer. Let me see you."

"Uh, alr-- Oh!" The strange man began touching his face. Running his fingers through the filthy beard Cricket sported. "I, um. Is this your fetish, or--"

"Sh." He was cut off promptly. The man ran his hands all over Cricket's face. Then they wandered down to his body, thumbs falling in the plateaus of Cricket's xylophone ribs. He clicked his tongue. "When were you last fed."

"Good question. Week ago I found a burrito in the trash. A whole one! How crazy is that, who's going around tossing burritos?"

"I see. Follow me."

"Yer not gonna kill me, right?"

"Well. If I was, why would I tell you."

"...Fuck, you're way smarter than me."

The man declined a response, instead walking away. Cricket followed, like he assumed he'd ought to.

A mistake.

* * *

 

Cricket had never been in a limo before. One with a place for booze. The man poured him a glass of champagne. He said his name was Dennis. He also said some other stuff, but Cricket tuned out. Cricket said his name was Cricket. Dennis asked if that was his real name, and Cricket explained that he didn't give out his real name. Then they stopped in front of the biggest mansion he'd ever seen, and Cricket staggered out on the cheap heels he wore.

"Alright, let's have you cleaned up before we do anything."

"Huh? Oh, it's fine. I ain't got STDs."

"No, I just... think it'd be better."

As they entered, walls of... frankly scantily-clad maids came to greet Dennis. Sleazy. Cricket wrinkled his nose a bit. Dennis motioned towards Cricket. "This one's Cricket. You know what to do. Go make preparations."

Two of the maids began ushering Cricket away. He felt like he was in a cloud of frills and black and white. He was shuffled into a humongous powder room. Dennis' servants were kind of creepy, they all moved like a unit.

"Undress."

A blonde one pointed at him. She had an awfully thick accent. Russian, maybe.

"Uh, alright, could I have some privacy?"

"No."

Cricket swallowed and nodded, slipping out of his hobo-hooker garb. They even watched him piss... Christ, Cricket. He'd done everything under the sun, yet only now he felt exposed. Something about the high light. The way they all stared. Empty.

When he signaled he was done, suddenly he was shoved into an  _enormous_ bathroom, complete with a jacuzzi bath, full of warm water. He was slowly walked in, one step at a time, and the cleaning ritual began. Shampoo, conditioner... They were all wearing rubber gloves. He shuddered a bit while they got their fucking hands all over him, on his legs and arms and his  _fucking asscrack_ , this was all really excessive.

"I can, uh, I can do this myself."

He wasn't given a response. They drained the water a bit and slowly, deftly, shaved his entire body. Right down to the  _balls_. Blonde hair clippings piled up in the trash and the water. His face felt... nude, frankly. Then one took a large pair of clippers and cut away a large amount of his hair. Most likely, it was matted and dirty. His ratty blonde locks were trashed, and they finally let him step out... but still insisted on towel-drying him. 

Finally he was freed from the clutches of Dennis' weird maid hivemind. He was left a soft bathrobe to wear. He caught himself in the mirror and, well... were it not for one blind eye, he'd be unrecognizable. His hair returned to the golden dandelion fluff he once had, and his body was clean and bare. Still bony, but pristine. It all just seemed like a lot of work to fuck a prostitute. But... he'd take it. Hopefully he wasn't having a weird, wonderful dream. Finding a pair of velvety slippers, he stepped out of the bathroom, only to be greeted by another strange face. A woman, but also in a fancy suit.

"Hello. I'm Deandra, call me Dee. Sister of Dennis."

"So what, is this gonna be some weird incest-play thing?"

"Noooo. I wouldn't touch my brother with a forty-foot pole." She motioned towards Cricket. "Follow me, we've got dinner."

"D-dih..." Cricket's eyes widened into two dinner plates. His belly clenched.  _Food._ He was so close to fucking crying at the thought of food that didn't come from the garbage. Dee could clearly see the excitement in him.

"Yeah. God, I couldn't imagine not having three meals a day. I'd kill myself. You're a fucking survivor."

"Uh, thanks."

He followed behind Dee across the wide, marbled halls and massive chandeliers. He was in awe... people live in places this big? In real life? It looked like the fucking jumbo-steroid-mansion from  _The Sound of Music_ , or some shit. He was then brought into a massive dining hall with a long table, which was... covered in food. Dennis was at one end. Dee sat herself at the other. Cricket was prepared to weep, feeling like the god damned Little Match Girl. He sat close to the middle, eyeing the huge spread.

"Don't overdo it. We also have dessert."

_Dessert! They fucking had dessert!_

"What's your poison, Cricket?" Dee asked. "Wine? Beer? Hard liquor?"

"Uh..." Cricket swallowed. "Rum and coke?"

"Simple man." Dee clapped her hands, shouting over to a maid. "Rum and coke for Cricket!"

Cricket reached over, carving into a wide cut of steak. It was seasoned with... ah, fuck, something or other. It dripped juice on the plate. Rare, how he liked it. He took a bite, and it melted in his mouth, like any good steak should. He finally began to cry. It was so fucking good... He wiped his eyes.

"I can't- I really can't be more thankful about this. Oh my god."

"No need to be." Dennis sipped from a glass of wine. "We do this sort of thing quite often."

"You're a fucking godsend." 

"Tell us about yoursel--."

"Is that  _goose?! A whole goose?!_ "

"...Yes."

"Come to papa..." Cricket reached across the table and tore off a leg from the massive bird. He gnawed at it, lapping the juice from his fingers.

"So tell us about yourself."

"Uh, I mean." He was grabbing bare-handed for the slabs of thick-cut bacon. "Not much to know. I used to be a priest! I, uh, I dropped it because it kinda seemed like a crime."

"Elaborate?"

"Well, like. You can't be a coke addict and a priest at the same time. It's sacrilege." Cricket grunted. "Fuck, that's good bacon. And there's my rum and coke, thank you!" He plucked the glass from the maid's hand and took a sip. "Tastes like home."

"Then I'm assuming you hit a downward spiral and lost your money and home to your addiction."

"Yup. Ooh." He rose a hand, trying (and failing) to stifle a belch. "Fuck. 'scuse me."

"Well, personally I like to wine and dine my sluts a little." Dennis rested his face on one hand. "It's no skin off my nose."

"Oh, trust me, I don't even need the fucking money after this. God is real." Cricket huffed a small laugh. "Amen."

"Hey!" Dee shouted. "What happened to your eye?"

"Dog. Got my throat too, check this shit out." Cricket arched his neck a bit, displaying a swollen, infected wound. Scarring and hot, pulsing with pus and blood. "Death metal, am I right?" Dee leaned in, intrigued.

"Anyone ever try to like, fuck it?"

"Well funny you'd ask that, because apparently it looks sexy to... dogs." Dee snorted.

"Not a dog person."

"Neither am I." Dennis tacked on. Cricket was back to shoving meat products into his mouth. "Wanna see the desserts? We have all sorts."

"I'm starting to suspect your fetish is just watching me eat." Cricket snorted. "Not mad, not mad, not mad. 'nother rum and coke first-- thank youuuu!" One of those server chicks was already ready with a drink. Cricket knocked it back. And then he crammed some food in his mouth. Something tomato-y. "I feel bad not eatin' all this stuff."

"It's pennies." Dennis flicked a wrist. "Have you ever had trifle?"

"Heard of it. God."

"Macaron?"

"You're gonna kill me."

"Or ice cream, like a normal person." Dee cut in. Dennis shot her an angry look.

"I'll take it all." Cricket nodded. "Or whatever. I'll eat it."

Dennis called out a series of delicious-looking sweets on a long trolley. Cricket had always had a sweet tooth. One of the maids also brought him  _another_ rum and coke, like she was fucking psychic. He felt like a king, for the first time in... his whole stupid life. The cream and sponge melted on the bottom of his mouth. 

While tearing into a tiny box of  _macaron_ , he felt... a little woozy. He really needed to stop accepting refills on his drink.

"I hope you weren't, uh, expecting me to work tonight. Kinda sleepy."

"Oh, that's alright. You can sleep here."

"God-fucking-blehh." He swallowed... woah, this actually felt pretty bad. Overeating and overdrinking? Fuck, he wasn't dying from refeeding sickness, right? He tottered a bit on his feet. "Yeah, I'm- I'm gone. Shit." He braced himself on a chair.

"Alright then. Dee and I will walk you to your room."

Dennis positioned himself just behind Cricket, supporting his back. This... this wasn't anything he'd ever experienced. He felt tired and... sick and...

_This son of a bitch drugged him._

"You muh'nerfugger..."

"Sh, sh, sh."

Cricket had been in street brawls before, but as  _whatever the **fuck**_ they gave him settled in, and he was weak like a fucking infant. Each limb weighed fucking tons. This rich motherfucker! He was fucking played... With Euro-sweets, no less! Now his fucking eyelids were weighing down, down, down. "That's a good pet. Dee, help me get him downstairs." Dee nodded, that  _rat fucking whore_. Cricket wanted to slam their heads together and run for it.

He felt tired. So tired. His platinum lashes fluttered, but he couldn't stay awake. He couldn't.

Rickety Cricket fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The future was uncertain.


	2. a sign you should've killed yourself years ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all downhill from here.

_The truth is, man never truly becomes docile in captivity. Stockholm's? It's a gift. It doesn't happen to everyone. In fact, I find it rare that it comes at all unless you fuck them. Fucking gives them the illusion of love. However, I have no interest in fucking, for the most part. Do I masturbate thinking of their screams? Of course I do. I'm a man. I used to take rich women of my own status, before it became too dangerous. Now they were clean ones. I wasn't nervous about screwing them._

_The ones I currently take, though? It's far too risky. Even with a rubber on, they could be plagued with disease. In honesty I try to avoid touching them as much as possible. Usually my various maids clear away urine. As soon as possible I have them hooked to a nutritional IV, removing the issue of bowel movements, thank god. If I have gloves on, I'll handle them periodically._

_Once they realize they can't escape, it becomes boring, anyway._

A strange, cold room is a bad place to wake up. Even worse, wiggling your limbs and finding you can't move. Cricket shouldn't have taken that offer.

But he did.

Now he couldn't move an inch from... possibly a mattress. It was dark, so dark he couldn't see two damn inches in front of him. So he had to feel. It was cold. The way the air blew across his flesh... He was goddamn naked. Of course. Another rape-murder case. Another casualty, dropped by the American government. No doubt, even if Cricket's body was searched for, the police would find "no evidence" against Dee and Dennis.

Cricket tested his bounds. Metal. Most likely handcuffs, locked tight or even welded shut. He'd have to go all  _Saw_ to get out of this shit. The more he futzed around, the more he could feel the cuffs tear away at his skin, so he decided to stop. 

His head and body were free, so he looked around. Darkness. Though it smelled horrible. The sheets weren't damp, and it definitely wasn't a piss smell, so that was good. God only knew how strong those drugs were. Some kind of powerful, medical-grade sedative, he figured. The rich could have anything, Cricket sneered to himself. Fucking assholes. He couldn't hear a damn thing, which meant this room was soundproofed to the nines. Either that, or the twins and their nine-fucking-billion maids were just being awfully quiet.

Possibly both.

His thoughts were cut off by a creaking sound. And a humming. That bastard was humming. Cricket shut his eyes and feigned sleep. It worked on dogs... and drug addicts.

A harsh, uncolored light filled the room. White, like a hospital. The humming got louder. 

"I can tell you're awake."

Cricket's blood ran cold. "Your breathing, posture, expression. All subtle changes. But I am a  _seasoned veteran_." Resigned to his fate, Cricket allowed his eyes to open. This room looked like... a small part of a basement. White-painted cement bricks lined the walls. On the other side was a set of double doors, possibly a closet. Then an exit. No door, surprisingly, but seemingly endless darkness past the walls. His chest tightened when he saw dark stains on the floor. Dried blood.

"You psycho motherfucker." Cricket spat in Dennis' general direction.

"No need for aggression. After all, something like this had to happen to you sooner or later." Dennis sat at the edge of... the sad, old-timey, metal-frame bed that Cricket was cuffed to. Old blood also appeared to stain the mattress. "I mean, someone of your status and profession is just so easy. You practically walk around asking me to do this stuff."

"So what. Gonna rape me, kill me, both. Whatever it is, hurry the fuck up."

Dennis looked down at him.

"You're sorely mistaken. The idea that I'd  _actually_ fuck a worm-ridden street rat like yourself is beyond preposterous."

"Hey, people do it."

"Secondly. I don't plan to kill you. I think that'd be too easy. I think you'd  _like_ that."

Cricket would be lying if he said he wouldn't. Because life fucking sucked, and God was dead, or alive and just a bastard, or maybe he never existed. He felt ugly and stupid all the time. Because that's just what happens, when you're a jobless crackhead who sucks cock for money and eats stuff out of the garbage. It wasn't like suicide hadn't crossed his mind. He just... never got around to it. But Dennis knew he wanted to. Who the fuck in his situation  _wouldn't_ want to die.

"...Not without merit." was his only comment.

"I just want to play with you a little. And then... I dunno. I'll probably kill you when I get bored."

"That shouldn't take long."

"Oh, trust me. You have no idea."

"I can be  _rrreeeeaaaallly_ boring."

Dennis looked poised to respond, but turned towards Dee, who was entering with... something behind her back. Cricket tried to crane his neck, but only ended up pulling muscles. She leaned over him like he was her newborn baby cousin in his crib. Cricket sure did feel that helpless. Nude, and cold.

"Hey there, buuuuddy." She was patronizing him. He spat in her direction.

"Get fucked, cunt."

"Oooooh." She gritted her teeth. Dennis tutted. They looked at each other like they were having a high-speed telepathic conversation regarding Cricket's fate. Then she pulled out her secret weapon. A long pair of hedge clippers. Cricket's blood went cold. He tried to wriggle away from it, but there was no leeway with the chains. No slack to speak of. Almost playfully, Dee poised the blades around his fucking flaccid dick. 

Cricket made a noise akin to that of a pig getting punched. Dee snorted. "I wasn't actually gonna cut your schlong off, jeez. Get a fucking grip. Nah. I'll just take a toe, since you're an asshole. Then I'm gonna cut your achilles tendon!" Another weird pig sound. "Don't worry 'bout it."

"Well, I'd be worried, if I were him." Dennis snorted. "It's likely he'll never walk properly again."

Dee was too busy precision-placing the blades around Cricket's left pinkie toe. Without even a countdown, she snapped it clean off. It flew threw the air for a moment. The pain alone wasn't too bad, but the spectacle, the concept, that made him begin screaming. That was a fucking extremity that he couldn't grow back.

"Oh, maybe he's freaking out a little too much, actually. Don't cry, it's not that bad."

"Ah, he'll probably flip regardless." Dennis shrugged. "Let's get those tendons!"

"Get the fuck away from me!" Cricket's voice was strained. He couldn't move a goddamn inch in these chains. No achilles tendon meant no fucking walking, and then he'd be screwed to shit for eternity and even after. 

"After we clip these we're gonna keep you in the corner so you can crawl around all you want." Dennis was smiling too. "Doesn't that sound nice?"

"I wanna go home."

"You don't have one, though, right? Of course you don't. That's why I like you." Dennis turned to Dee. "His heels."

Dee grinned, uncuffing one foot. As soon as she did, Cricket kicked out. He got her once in the face, taking that as a minor triumph. However, it was short-lived. Dennis drew a knife. A nice one, were it not all so fast, Cricket may very well have admired the craftsmanship. Almost blindly, he drove the blade below Cricket's exposed kneecap. He shrieked, pain shooting up his leg, as if his legs weren't fucking bad enough. The pain was unbearable, and it wouldn't leave. Instead the blood simply gushed out around the blade, as Cricket finally dropped the weight in his leg and allowed it to go limp.

"You're a fucking asshole." Dee rolled her eyes. "We give you a place to stay and everything. Unbelievable!"

"Did you know most people allegedly below the poverty line own things like TVs and fridges? It's ludicrous. Look at this one, he's fat as shit." In truth, the bloat of Cricket's stomach was entirely due to fucking starving, but he was too tired to argue. He'd used up a good three-quarters of his energy shrieking for help. Dee shook her head, then lifting Cricket's leg once more. He hissed, his knee stung like the dickens, and now he was also cold. The blades met the taut muscle just above his heel, and dug in. Pain all anew blossomed in his foot, he tried to bite it back, but the noise became little dewdrop tears rolling down his cheeks. Even worse. With a bit of fluttering, the blades managed to carve through.

"Don't be such a baby, damn. Grown man crying like a little bitch."

"You fucking whore." Despite Cricket trying to inject his words with venom, they still came out only as toxic as seawater. 

"Uh? One of us has shitloads of money and the other is a whore."

Dennis snorted. Apparently he found that one just... delightfully funny. "Alright, bub, lemme get the other one." She undid the next cuff. Instead of fighting, Cricket drew his leg back. And Dennis drew, in response, a gun. Cricket's eyes bulged from his skull.

"Cooperate or I blast your knee off." Dennis cocked the gun. Cricket silently dropped his foot in Dee's hand, and she snipped the other tendon. It hurt a little less this time. but he still grit his teeth in an attempt to distract from it. Dennis looked all sorts of pleased. "Ver-ry good. Let's move you elsewhere, these sheets are all filthy now."

The wrist cuffs were undone. Cricket rubbed at his sore wrists, curling up on the corner of the bed near the wall like a frightened animal. "Come on." Dennis tried to coax him out of there. "I am still very, very armed." Oh, right, shit, fuck. He scrambled over towards the twins, and took one step off the bed. Right away the pain rushed through his body, and he fell onto the hard ground clutching his shredded ankle. 

"Dumbass." Dee snorted. "You're not gonna be walking on those... ever, probably."

"Correct, as that's the muscle that bends and stretches your foot. You'll need help from Dee."

"Ugh." Dee shuddered a bit, visibly not wanting to touch Cricket no matter how thoroughly those maids cleaned his buttcrack. Regardless, she managed to lift him. Bridal carry. Clearly she was the brawn of this operation. Cricket swore under his breath as she hauled him to a corner. The only thing there was a chain with a metal collar attached to it. Cricket was set down on the floor and the collar snapped around his throat before he even had time to think. It shut with a heavy metal padlock. "We'd oughtta weld this thing shut at some point, it's never coming off."

"You've got a point there. Jot that down on my schedule."

"That's not my job."

"Alright, fine. Can you at least get our guest's things?" Dee nodded at that, dashing out the door with childlike excitement. Cricket tugged on the collar, but it was solid. So solid, it probably couldn't be broken by a particularly strong person, let alone an emaciated druggie. "How are you? May I have my knife back?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you." Cricket hissed through teeth. Dennis clicked his teeth together, withdrawing the knife from Cricket's knee. Blood came with it, dripping on the floor. "You're fucking nuts."

"I have all I could possibly want, don't you think? And, well, sometimes that gets boring." Dennis shrugged. "A man of my caliber, sometimes, wishes to attain the things money can't buy. Not that a street urchin would ever understand. You got excited when someone dropped food in front of you. If it's that easy, no wonder you're in my basement, covered in your own blood for my personal pleasure."

Dee re-entered the room with a fucking pet bed. A pink one. Cricket groaned, it was all so... so much. She set it on the ground nearby, thankfully within the reach of the painfully short chain. "Well isn't that nice." Dennis sounded smug. Looked it, too. Cricket wanted to cram his sliced-open knee into Dennis' fucking teeth. Get their blood to mix together as he spat those pearly bone-nubs all over the ground. But how would he, when he couldn't even stand? And, as awful as it was, a dog bed was still a whole lot nicer than Cricket's usual sleeping situation. Frankly he'd be a lot more willing to sleep there if they hadn't nipped his ankles in half.

"Basement gets cold, street rat!" Dee spoke just a little too loud at all times. She threw a soft, fuzzy blanket over the bed. "And I don't fuck with sick people."

The weird level of... kindness they just peppered in all around. It made Cricket more uncomfortable than the randomized moments of sadism. "Go to sleep. Bedtime now. Nighty night, puppy dog." He gritted his teeth. He fucking  _hated_ dogs...

Regardless, his tiny body fit well in the round little bed. It didn't offer much space to kick out, but it was... relatively soft. And despite having just risen from a sedation nap, Cricket was exhausted beyond all human comprehension. He couldn't even remember a time he'd been this tired. Not to mention, it was clear that the twins weren't leaving until he was asleep. And these fuckers  _knew_ when he was asleep, because of his breathing or whatever. God, it was so fucking creepy! He tugged the blanket over his body and head, to block out the weirdly surgical fluorescent lights, which hummed with an awful consistency, never quieting.

It was actually pretty easy. He was out like a goddamn light.


End file.
